


Inspiration

by Get_below_my_line_of_vision



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Artist Grantaire, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Get_below_my_line_of_vision/pseuds/Get_below_my_line_of_vision
Summary: Grantaire was a famous playwright before the War began. After the War ended he was told to return back to his way as if nothing happened, as if he wasn’t a soldier who witnessed horrific events.Finding it too much, he decides to run away to his friend’s house to try to hide from all the attention.While Enjolras is a journalist who is moved by his words.
Relationships: Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Bossuet Laigle, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story centers around PTSD.

The doors opened as if they were falling apart. For a second, his mind crumbled in fear. Beyond the door the brightest flashes bombarded him. As the subject of attention, Grantaire froze. Frightened, he daren’t say a word.  
The mob on the other hand rushed to form a crowd around him, firing questions brutally. They asked how tragedy transformed his life, how he was going to rediscover himself, what his next enlightening projects would be. With so many people interested in his life he never figured he would be so alone. He tried to focus on one face but could not spot any human features as the flashed had only caused silhouettes to taunt him.  
“Speak, Grantaire,” A man beside him whispered harshly in his ear, “Tell ‘em about your plans!”  
Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and in response more flicks of the camera flushed him. He opened his mouth and despite being in perfect condition, no voice escaped. His mind was screaming at him, but his throat relaxed- feeling no urgency nor determination to carry out the essential task in acting like how he used to be.  
Questions instead barreled towards him, aimlessly flying towards him. Every time he wasn’t able to respond gave him a headache. This pain then would prevent him from thinking of other answers, and at this point he was stuck in an endless abyss of frustration. 

As he was unable to even follow the advice in his head, he yelped.  
This did not silence the overwhelming, cramped audience, but it did hush them. It was clear to Grantaire they did not settle down due to their worry for the man, but for predicting melodrama. Nevertheless he preferred this reaction in comparison to suffocation. “I… I will write…” His voice was shaky as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks and had to relearn how to speak, “I have written a p-play. It was finished a year before the War- the War we know- uh, the War that had happened- no, occurred. It- uh, depicted a life of a little girl called Poppy who had to live past all her conflicts- the devastation, the pain, the horror of her life- the girl Poppy… It had won an award… And I thought it would be appropriate to present this piece of work once again- once again I wanted to show, uh…” He felt the dizziest he had been so far in his life; the ceilings caved in, the walls roared closer, and all Grantaire could do was gasp for air in such a confined place. He didn’t want to talk about his story. He didn’t want to talk about a little girl. He wanted peace- to be left alone. Yet he felt paralysed in front of everyone, being pulled down by them. 

Grantaire wasn’t sure if this was a reality or a nightmare. He began to speak again nevertheless. “It-it is quite unfortunate… I remember seeing eyes. Yes, they were eyes… They were blue. Not the sky blue nor the ocean blue. They were deathly cold. Unconnected to human life. His iris were deep holes. Staring more and more I realised I was standing opposite of Death.” He gasped for breath as he was drowning, “There was dirt- I, I think. In the tips of his fingers, there were. I knew the man was dead. I didn’t recognise the man. But as I approached him, I felt as if my brother was sprawled on the ground in front of me. I tried to look for ammunition- weapons-- to carry. While I was doing so I felt a tight grasp on my wrist. It stung so much I… I screamed. In fear, I shouted and screamed. I had my eyes closed. I was laughed at. They called the man a rotten corpse. But I was sure I felt burns. I was sure the man was awake and that he was merely… sleeping so calmly.” Grantaire shed a tear and he collapsed to the ground.  
“What are you doing?” Hissed the man next to him as he tried to pull him up, “Are you a damsel in distress? Get up, Grantaire!”  
He gave no effort, but was forced by the man to stand up. Understanding he would always be labelled for this moment, he accepted his fate of receiving fame no more. “When we were at War, we weren’t soldiers. There were no poetic songs praising our sacrifice nor were there women swooning over our return. We were dropped out of the sky, plucked, then stationed. We were armed and we were told there would be no more identity of our past selves. Ultimately, our identity was sacrificed like weak lambs. Yet when we surrendered our weapons to those who initiated this conflict we were ordered to integrate back into our everyday society. Am I the only one who is pissed at these fucked up circumstances?” The silhouettes gasped and began to mutter like ripples forming in muddy puddles. “I gave my damn life and have lost everything! I cannot fucking write! I cannot breathe!”

He fell once more. He was wide awake but he wished he had been dreaming. Gradually he became more aware of his surroundings and his inappropriate behaviour. As he got up to apologise and promise he would write another outstanding play, he was being dragged away by those around him. He felt his mouth was sewed so he couldn’t speak any more. 

The increasing swarm of flies followed him, questioning him more. These shadows merged into one and momentarily he saw the darkness of the War. He remembered the disgusting smell of the dead bodies; of his fellow soldiers. He remembered thinking he could make alliances with those around him- have friendly chats and feel no consequences of his naivety. The stench was unbearable. The vomit, the blood, the rats feeding off the torn limbs… 

It was just a moment of tangent of his thoughts but was cursed to be paralysed. He could comprehend the situation unfold before him but was unable to respond in any way.  
It truly seemed as if his body had protested against his mind and were in an internal war.  
A tear trickled down his cheek. He wished he could undo everything he had just done.  
The last thing he saw before being shoved into the car was the enormous growing shadows racing to swallow him whole.

When he arrived at home he was given security guards.  
Inside, it was gloomy. His room was grey. Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time he saw vibrant colours. Everything was so… lonely.

Without much to do he lay on his bed, staring at the unmoving ceiling. When he closed his eyes he dreamt that the ceiling would crumble down on him. Horrified, he woke up and fell out of his bed and crawled away.  
When he was certain that it was only his imagination, he returned to his bed. He stared at the spot he was sleeping. He sighed and grabbed the blanket and pillow and slept on the cold, hard floor.

When his eyes opened once more it was early morning. Very early that the sun was barely rising. His back ached. His eyelids were so heavy but he would jolt awake. Every time he tried to fall asleep he felt he was closing his eyes for hours only to return to reality in which only a few minutes had passed. This was purgatory for him.  
Granataire had enough. As he couldn’t flee out the door as the security were positioned there, he quickly grabbed his coat and car keys and climbed out of the window.

Reaching his car, his heart raced quickly. But somehow he felt liberated.  
As he pressed his pedal he knew where he was heading to. To his darling friend, Éponine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets Éponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éponine's parents are the Valjeans, not the Thénardiers in this fic.

Grantaire approached Éponine’s family home like a drunk man. He was so tired he was losing balance. He had never been inside her house yet he felt as if he had arrived home. He needed Éponine. After he knocked on the door with his head as he fell over, he couldn’t remember much as he finally was captured by sleep.

At first all he could detect were low grumbles and mutterings. The voice definitely belonged to Éponine. He smiled and opened his eyes, “Éponine” he whispered.  
Like a bird, she twisted her neck when she heard his voice. Grantaire truly believed he was hallucinating. Éponine approached him floating only for him to realise she was in a wheelchair. “Éponine?” He repeated, worried.  
“You’re up.” She flatly spoke. “Don’t scare me like that! My father was horrified to see you in that condition. Especially when he didn’t know you. Fortunately my sister was familiar with your works and took care of you.”  
Grantaire scanned the room, trying to direct his gratitude to her sister but couldn’t find her.  
“Don’t be stupid, I took over. You are my friend, after all. I wanted it to be personal, not just a random nurse taking care of a random ex-soldier.”  
Grantaire nodded even though he didn’t fully understand her.  
“Why did you come here, Grantaire?”  
Grantaire shifted. “I was suffocating.”  
“Yes I heard. In the newspaper it said you swore at journalists and reviewers.”  
Grantaire blushed.  


“It’s fine. I get you. They didn’t exactly say what you said but I can guess, and I’m proud of you. After a year you’re still spitting truth. Well done.”  
He flashed a smile. When she gave a smile back and turned away he asked softly, “What happened?”  
Éponine paused. “What?”  
“Your… legs.”  


“I lost ‘em.” 

That was all the explanation she gave. She didn’t want to delve in. Grantaire felt guilty but he didn’t want to push her either. His head ached once more.  


Éponine watched the fireplace and chucked more wood. “World’s fucked up, but here, it seems okay.”  
“Yeah… yeah it really does.”  


“You can stay here.”  
“I can?”  
“Least I can do. But not in this house. My family owns another house. They built it for their grandkids… You can use it for a while.”  
Grantaire nodded. “Thank you. For everything. Thanks to your sister as well- her- her name is?”  
“Go back to sleep, R. You’ve been sleeping for hours, it’s night now.”  


Strangely, Grantaire wanted to cry in frustration as he was told to do something that had been so difficult to complete even though the action such as sleeping was so mundane it shouldn’t have been so taxing.  
Éponine recognised his pain. “Or don’t.” She shrugged. “I have a fiancé now.”  
“What?”  
“What can I say, I’m in love.” She said as if she had rehearsed this line.  
Grantaire got out of his bed and approached her. He placed his hand on her shoulder to direct her eyes to his. “What really happened?”  
Éponine gulped. “I told you of my brother, remember?”  
Grantaire remembered with clarity. They were in a trench, their shoes soaked. To distract themselves from the pain they began to chat about facts about their families. They promised each other not to talk about stories- since they would become too attached. But neutral facts were okay. Éponine told him she had a brother and a sister. Both very beautiful and lively. She didn’t mean to say the last part; she was only thinking out loud.  
“Gavroche’s dead. He’s- he was my little brother.” She sighed. “My mother wept. He was the only male in the household. The only one to carry on our name. When we were young Cosette and I promised not to marry. We didn’t want to deal with the worries of romance or men. But as the eldest, I have to make sure my parents are not miserable.”  
“They aren’t though.”  
“Last time I checked they first met you sleeping in front of their door like a drunkard. How would you know what they think or want?”  
“I’m sure your parents love you enough that they wouldn’t support you being forced to marry.”  
She scoffed. “It’s just business, Grantaire. I’m happy.”  
Grantaire knelt down. “Are you?”  
“Yes.” She spoke straight away, having predicted what he was going to ask.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bossuet is referred mainly as Lesgle here.

He didn’t have the house to himself for the whole day. In midday he heard a knock. Frightened of what had happened recently, he hid out in the kitchen. The knocks became harsher and reflexively Grantaire slammed his hands over his ears. He groaned in pain.

Then the knocking stopped. Grantaire didn’t realise he had begun crying. Shamefully he wiped away his tears and waited until he figured the person had left.  
When he exited the kitchen he was able to spot through the large windows of the living room a blond man. He caught his eyes. Grantaire knew who he was- a journalist. Tired of it all he stormed up to the window and pulled the curtain. As he was doing so the blond man followed him trying to communicate with him through the window with his voice about the speech he gave.  
The curtain surprisingly did the trick and the man outside didn’t disturb him. After pacing around the room, he returned back to the curtain and pulled it back slightly. The man was gone. He sighed with relief.

In peace, Granatire sat on the sofa. The house must have been new. Or they repaired some parts after it had been damaged during the War. Either way the walls were all white. The ceilings too. There was hardly any furniture in the house. It was as if it was made for a ghost. Grantaire tapped his fingers, deep in thought.  
The doorbell rang. Grantaire held tightly onto the cushions. His fingers burnt due to the amount of strength he was exerting.  
Then a familiar voice was being called through the door. “Hey, it’s me, Bossuett.” He laughed to himself. “No, but seriously, it’s Lesgle. I’m a little scared of Éponine so I didn’t inform her that I was coming here. If you don’t want to see me it’s-”  
The door opened and Lesgle was met with a smiling Grantaire, “My Lesgle. How come you’re here?”  
“Well, I wanted to surprise-visit you, couldn’t find you, and travelled down all the way from the north.” He pointed at the sky to indicate the direction.  
“Ah, I see.”  
“Yeah…” He scratched his head, “Am I the only one who’s wondering who this woman is?” He pointed down to the blond man he saw earlier, sitting on the steps to his door.  
The man turned his head to look at Lesgle. He was still silent.  
“Oh, you’re a man. My bad. I’m not wearing my glasses right now. You are very pretty.” Lesgle rambled on.  
“Okay.” Grantaire leant down. “I don’t want to have an interview or give a statement. If you come back again I will inform the Valjean family. Imagine what would happen if the richest family in this region gets pissed.”  
“Sir,” He spoke, his voice surprisingly softer than he imagined it would be, “I’m Enjolras and-”  
“Don’t care.” Grantaire spoke over him as Lesgle entered the house.  
Like a planned coordination, Grantaire stood up, took a step back, and Lesgle shut the door.

The two strolled over to the dining room and sat down. “So, how’s Musichetta?” Grantaire asked.  
“Pregnant with the third child.”  
“Post-war baby…”  
“Well, it’s safe now. Because of people like you.” Lesgle pressed and gently held his hand for comfort.  
The two were very close: Lesgle was his friend from school. They were both drafted but weren’t fighting together.  
“Because of people like us.” Grantaire placed his other hand on top of his.  
Lesgle shook his head. “All I did was get injured consistently. My homes were different hospitals.”  
Lesgle always described himself to have the worst luck but it had turned out his terrible luck was what saved him.

Taking the silence as an indicator that there was no more to talk about the topic, Lesgle moved on, “So what have you been doing in this house? It looks brand new.”  
“It does, doesn’t it? Apparently nobody's lived here.”  
They looked at a large, wide, white wall. “Looks empty.” Lesgle commented.  
Grantaire smiled. “I have an idea what I want to do.”

They simultaneously headed for the front door and Grantaire tripped over the blond man who was still on the steps. When Grantaire hit the floor, he had a flash of memory of a fellow soldier who pinned him down since he wasn’t fully in cover. That soldier was most likely dead…  
“I’m so sorry, sir,” The man said.  
Lesgle shoved the man and helped Grantaire get back up- he was shaking so much. Lesgle whispered that he would get the car and gestured for the man to follow him. Grantaire stopped the journalist and watched Lesgle walk away from an ear-shot.  
“What is the problem with you?” He spat, his eyes welling up with tears.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to trip you up.”  
“No, listen. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to give statements.”  
“But I want to know what you’re going to write-”  
“Enj…” Grantaire started out but completely blanked on the second half of his name,”-y?” He settled for a nickname It wouldn’t matter; he would never see him again. “I am not writing anymore. I can’t.”  
‘Enjy’ stood, watching the man intently. “I’m sorry.” He said as he rushed off.  
As depressing as it was Grantaire patted himself in the back for scaring off the journalist. Then he thought of the possibility that Enj-whatever-he-was-called had a recording device. He sighed heavily in disappointment. 

Hearing the honking noise from Lesgle he took the cue and ran to the car. When they drove past the journalist Grantaire took a long look at the journalist walking while scribbling in his notepad. Subconsciously Grantaire smiled; there was a piece who was glad to see someone who acted so much like him when he was young. Then there would’ve been people he could’ve had a deep relationship with. To be fair he was friends with Lesgle because he was the other smart kid in his class. He also was friends with Musichetta because she had a crush on Lesgle and couldn’t look at him in the eyes without giggling so she talked to Grantaire instead. Of course he became friends with, against all odds, Éponine because of the War…  
None of them stemmed from sharing the same interests as he did. No child wanted to be a creative artist- it wouldn’t give them enough money. Grantaire was tired of the fixation on money the society had. Call it liberal thinking, he didn’t care.  
He also thought of Éponine. As the eldest of the family she had the responsibility of carrying the family name. She didn’t want to get married. He knew her well. She wasn’t the type of a person to want the fairy tale happy ending with some man.

As they were driving Lesgle asked if he could put the radio on. Grantaire agreed, but only if it’s music. He didn’t want to listen to some man ramble in a box about how the country is devastated. He already knew that.  
Lesgle smiled and tuned the radio.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of blood

When the two returned they did so with a car full of buckets of paint. Lesgle laughed as he transferred them into the house. He was told in the ride to carry certain colours; red and black. It was a shame those colours were needed, especially red as it was the primary colour, since it was painful to stare at the pool of the colour.  
Instead Grantaire carried other colours such as green and yellow. They reminded him of the green that grew after the blood dried. The yellow reminded him of the rise of the new beginning once the news arrived that there would be no more merciless killings.

With a thick paintbrush Grantaire practically threw the paint at the wall, leaving a splotch and couple of dots surrounding it.  
This was when Lesgle asked, “Have you ever painted before?”  
Grantaire stared at the green on the wall. “How hard can it be?”  
Despite being successful in the creative art department he greatly underestimated the skills an artist required. Until now he had never held a brush nor carried paint nor… hung out with his friend. He smiled. He creates yellow outlines to the green. “Bring Musichetta next time.”  
Usually Granataire was the one holding back, thinking he was better than everyone thereby pushing those who cared about him away. But after the War he realised he was the same as everyone else. Just another piece to the game.   
“Next time? You’re inviting me- us?”  
Grantaire grinned as he splashed more paint like a child. This wasn’t creative enough… What made his writing beloved in the country was because he always tried to weave a story in an original light. He had to be original with art, too: he dipped his hand into the first bucket he saw. “Why not?”  
“Um, R-?”  
“Hm?” When he looked down he saw pitch black as if there was an abyss and that he could fall and fall. Then slowly he saw the red. It was very dark red. He knew if he were to pull out his hand it would be bright red. He began shaking. He had never seen blood envelop his hands but he had dreamt it several times before.  
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Guide me, Bossuet.”  
“To the sink?”  
“N- No.” He decisively said. “To the wall. Guide my hand.”  
Lesgle accidentally laughed. He covered his mouth then nodded, forgetting Grantaire couldn’t see at the moment. “It will look frightening.”  
“It’s been a year.” Grantaire snapped.  
Lesgle gently grabbed his hand. “This was a mistake. Let’s put the red away. Let’s open it later. When you’re not shivering like a wet rodent.” He tried to smile and guided the blind man to the kitchen.  
“Is the kitchen sink the best place to wash out-”  
“Is a hand the best substitute of a paintbrush?”  
Only the tap made noise. Lesgle took care of his hand gently, making sure there was no stain left. He told Grantaire it was okay to open his eyes. Lesgle returned back to hide the red paint.  
Grantaire had no desire to follow him. He was staring at his hand. There was paint left. It was clear. The red was hypnotysing. It was as if he was being pulled through a time warp. Feeling dizzy, his vision became blurry and he felt another hand grasp him. Surprised, he jolted back. The hand, although he did not see it, left a mark. There was a clear pattern of skin imprinted on his hand. The red was smudged.   
Breathing faintly he rushed over to the tap and tried to wash it off. It wouldn’t, but he kept trying. He grabbed the bar of soap and kept rubbing his hand. It was hopeless; the red was left on the soap and on his other hand. Soon the water that touched his hand soon became a faint red. He kept rubbing, rubbing, and rubbing. He moaned in frustration.   
This was when Lesgle pulled his hand away and turned the tap off. His eyes widened. “You’re bleeding.”

Lesgle had calmy called Éponine who was not hesitant to slap Grantaire in the face. Cosette told her off massively after witnessing such action. “He was a soldier, Ép, he saw blood and death and other nightmarish, hellish-”  
“I was a soldier too, Cosette.” Éponine crossed her arms. She turned her head to Grantare once more. “I offered this goddamn house for rehabilitation! Inviting your slut here and wrecking this place with,-” She scrunched her face as this concept was still wild to understand, “Paint. Paint! You’re a writer! You’re not some talentless artist!”  
“Ép, please,” Cosette calmly spoke as she treated Grantaire’s hand.  
“Lesgle is not my… Whatever you called him. He’s my friend.” Grantaire muttered.  
“Of course he is! I know he’s your friend, you brain slug, he’s my friend too! Besides that was not the part you were supposed to comment on!” She waved her hands, “Paint, Grantaire! Red is one of the essential colours. Do you not know what blood looks like?”  
“Enough, Éponine.” Cosette ordered but since her voice was so soft it rather sounded like she was singing.  
“No. Grantaire, you’re my friend.” She grabbed his arm. “We’re brother and sister. I don’t want to see you h-hurt.” She strengthened her grip on his arm. Grantaire endured the pain.  
“I’m sorry Éponine.” He placed his hand over hers, “But I don’t like it anymore. I don’t like writing. I want to try something new.”  
Éponine released her grasp and eyed Cosette for a second before talking to Lesgle like an old friend despite knowing him for a couple of months.

“Thank you,” Grantaire smiled at Cosette.  
She smiled back.  
Grantaire took this as cue and decided to help Éponine to exit the house. But before he could Cosette took a hold of his hand and guided him to the kitchen and shut the door.  
“Éponine still hasn’t told me.” Cosette murmured, “She refuses to tell me why she went to the War.”  
Grantaire’s eyes widened. He asked the same question before. It was odd for a woman to fight, although not rare. When they shared a bottle of beer, she told him, drunk. “I think she will tell you in time.”  
“No she won’t. I think it has something to do with me.”  
“No it doesn’t.”  
“But she looks at me with… I don’t know what it looks like exactly. But it’s different. She must’ve told the truth to mum and dad because they look at me differently too. Do you know anything about it?”  
It wasn’t his truth to tell. But Éponine was never going to confront Cosette… “I have no idea.”  
“Okay.” Cosette nodded, “Can you do me a favour and leave me for a minute here?”  
“Um, yeah, sure.” Grantaire said. He hugged her just in case and left the room.

“R!” Lesgle called out as soon as he entered his line of vision.  
“Why do you call him R?” Éponine plainly asked.  
“‘Cause it’s a pun in French.” Lesgle delivered the sentence expecting her to laugh.  
“Why French?”  
Lesgle’s smiled dissolved. “It’s a long story.”  
“I call Lesgle ‘Bossuet’ sometimes.” Grantaire added in an attempt to lighten the mood.  
“And why’s that?” Éponine asked, knowing the answer.  
“It’s a French joke.” Grantaire muttered, smiling.  
“Neither of you speak French.” Éponine raised her eyebrow.  
Lesgle chimed, “You must call your sister something- a nickname.”  
“No.” Éponine sternly said.

As if they had summoned her, Cosette returned, seemingly normal looking. She didn’t want to speak but kept her body language as open as usual. Unfortunately Lesgle didn’t pick up on the cues. “Did Éponine have a nickname for you?”  
“Oh yeah,” Cosette’s voice wavered but none of them commented on it, “She called me a lark when we were young.”  
Éponine blushed out of embarrassment. This was a rare sight. She usually never opened her soft side to anyone- not even Grantaire. It was refreshing to see this side of her. “What? She was good at singing. Now help me get out of the damn house with the useless steps.”  
Grantaire nodded and followed her lead. Nothing new.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joly my babe.

For the rest of the night the two drank too much. They reminisced of when they were young. They talked about how wild it was for Musichetta to be pregnant with their third child.   
While Grantaire studied hard at school, Legle was laid back. They both were at the top of their class, so Grantaire formed a friendship between them. Grantaire was considered to be a loner so Lesgle wanted to be as warm as he could to melt the icy barriers Grantaire put up. But as usual, Grantaire wasn’t so responsive, even he would admit he was neglectful at times.   
While Grantaire moped, Lesgle became friends with a transfer student from France. His name was Joly which suited his happy-go-lucky persona very well. As their friendship grew, Joly initiated a conversation with Grantaire. As they were on the opposite spectrum on what a perfect government would be, they began arguing which somehow transformed into a friendship.  
Grantaire, Lesgle, and Joly then became a trio that would hardly be separate… until Grantaire felt left out. At times Joly and Lesgle would hang out alone or leave Grantaire. Ready for a confrontation Grantaire marched to Lesgle’s home and slammed open the door of his bedroom. Fortunately Lesgle’s parents were not with Grantaire since that night he discovered something: Lesgle was attracted to men. The two were kissing when Grantaire was frozen still.  
Joly was the first to notice and spoke in memorised poems, as if he prepared for the day Grantaire would find out, about how love is love and that it is not bound to just one form. Shook at first, Grantaire thankfully didn’t alert Lesgle’s parents. Instead they chatted. They chatted until midnight. Lesgle was gay, or so Grantaire thought.

The time’s were different when they were young. There were some schools which separated the male and female sexes. The reason behind this would be that boys could concentrate harder in their work. Therefore they received higher, higher education. No students spoke against this system.  
Then there was Musichetta. In their normal classroom, Lesgle sat on the seat that was next to the window. They were on the ground floor. And on the other side of the window, Musichetta would squat and take notes. She was guilty in wanting better education.  
Despite not caring for education Lesgle started taking notes, almost recording every word the teacher spoke. He then passed it to Musichetta outside. This went on for a month before they began speaking to each other. Even then, it was only a few utterances.  
At first Grantaire believed their romance was a cover-up for his undefined relationship with Joly. It was when he saw Lesgle staring out of the window, smiling absentmindedly Grantaire realised Lesgle generally developed feelings for this girl.  
Worried for his best friend, Joly, he confronted Lesgle on what he should do.  
Before he could decide anything, however, Joly was taken away. He was a foreigner. And a war had been declared.

Grantaire sighed and passed a half-empty bottle of scotch to Lesgle. “You can drink the rest.”  
“What’s wrong?” Lesgle asked as he poured more scotch to his glass.  
“It’s just- talking about the past… it makes me think of ‘what ifs’.”  
“‘What ifs’?”  
Grantaire nodded. “What if… You and I never became friends.”  
“Impossible.” He scoffed. “It was mutual.”  
“Ah, but Joly glued us together. Also, I was terrible back then, sorry.”  
Lesgle looked at him, confused. “You didn’t tell anyone about me and Joly so cheers to that.”  
They clinked their glasses.  
“Do you still… think about him?”  
Lesgle laughed as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Do you think about him?”  
“No- I mean. What if… You know what it was stupid to bring this up again.”  
Leslge poured more to his glass. “Have I ever stopped calling you R?” He smiled, “Of course I think about him. But… Not as ‘what if we could run away to the sunset together’. More so… what if the War never happened and we stayed together. As friends.”  
“I know.” Grantaire leaned back on the sofa. “I think about that too.” He commented, “The only friend I had other than you, Musi, and Éponine. Would be nice if I could reach double digits of friends one day.”  
“Rude. My children think of you as their friends.”  
“Kids do that with everyone.”  
“They call you Uncle.”  
Grantaire turned, his eyes big with pride and love, “Really?”  
“Yeah.” He shrugged as if it was an obvious fact. “Well, obviously they haven’t seen you after the War, but they still remember you.”  
Grantaire nodded. “Maybe I’ll be able to see your children one day.”  
“Not ready?”  
“I scratched my hand to the point of… bl- blood seeping out.” Grantaire closed his eyes. “Not even close to being ready.”  
Lesgle placed his hand on his back reassuringly. “I’ll sleep beside you tonight. It calms Musi.”  
“But she’s your wife.”  
Lesgle shrugged. “Love is love. I sleep next to anyone I care about.”  
Grantaire thought for a while. “You’re suggesting this because it’s too dark to travel back home, aren’t you?”  
“What can I say.”

Nevertheless Lesgle crashed on his sofa while Grantaire fell asleep in the bed on the second floor. In front of Lesgle, there were a line of empty bottles.


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire awoke from the doorbell. Honestly, he didn’t know it worked in this house, so he froze for a few seconds. When he recognised that it was just someone outside and not some kind of a happy warning bell, he strolled downstairs.  
Surprisingly Lesgle was awake too, heading to the door from the first floor. If he remembered correctly, Lesgle always awoke in the afternoon, so Grantaire definitely overslept. 

Lesgle opened the door and immediately shut it.  
Thinking it was Musi on the other side, as there were no other possibilities, Grantaire called out as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “I don’t think you should treat your wife like that.”  
Lesgle walked up to Grantaire and shook his head. “The beautiful, young woman is back again.”  
“Éponine?”  
“No.”  
“Cosette?-- Oh, you’re talking about the journalist.” He let the information sink in. “Crap, what does he want?” He marched to the door, past Lesgle.  
When he swung the door open, there the man was. He had glasses on this time, his hair curly and tied back. He smiled like he saw a work of art, “Hi.”  
Grantaire lifted his eyebrow. “I told you not to come back.”  
“No- well,” Enjolras looked through his bag and took out a small, rectangular device. “I want you to carry this.”  
“What?” Grantaire held in a laugh.  
“It’s a recording device. Just… talk out loud, and give it to me at the end of the day.” He muttered to himself, “To think we have advanced so much with technology, you would’ve thought it would be able to record more than one day.”  
Grantaire couldn’t believe this was happening. “Yes, well, the world only cares in advancement in weapons, not what would actually benefit the people.”  
Enjolras happily pressed a button. The device echoed what Grantaire had just said. “Like that. See? Isn’t it cool? Here.” He handed it to him after pressing a button. “I won’t bother you.”  
“Apart from visiting me everyday.”  
“Well, yes. Um, but it’ll be in the morning. To exchange the device. Don’t worry after I listen to it, I’ll delete it. I just want to hear your voice.” He blushed. “Not like that- I mean to write about. ‘Cause I’m a journalist.”  
“I know what you meant.” Grantaire stared at the recording device. It was heavy. “If I do this, you’ll stop bothering me?”  
Enjolras nodded. “We can just exchange this device every day without a word.”  
Grantaire shrugged. “Have fun listening to nonsense then.” He shut the door.  
“Why did you accept?” Lesgle asked.  
“He’s persistent.” Grantaire spoke. “I like his aura, if that makes sense.” He added, then widened his eyes.   
Grantaire was so used to being open with Lesgle, presenting him with his internal thoughts, but this was information he didn’t want to share with Enjolras. “Shit,” He fumbled with the machine and pressed the button Enjolras had previously pressed. It repeated what he said out loud, “Fuck.” Grantaire whispered as he pressed the record button again.  
Lesgle laughed. “You didn’t need to start a new recording for that. It’s not like you confessed your love for him.”  
With a bored expression Grantaire repeated his actions and started the recording over, staring straight at Lesgle while doing so. Lesgle shrugged in response, grinning.

“You should go.”  
“What?” Lesgle held his arm. “Why?”  
“Because you probably didn’t intend to stay over.”  
Lesgle let go. “That’s true.”  
“Go back to your wife and kids.”  
“I will. Let me call Éponine first.”  
“I don’t need a babysitter.”  
Lesgle nodded, uncertain. “Alright, I’ll take my stuff and go.”  
“Yeah.”

After Lesgle left, Grantaire set the recorder down nearby and did not stop staring at the buckets of paint. He couldn’t just splash around- he needed to do something that had meaning; he wanted to dive deep. Just like how he couldn’t smash letters together to make a play, he had to weave stories and poetry together. That was what he was going to do. He was going to make a piece that meant something to him.

He grabbed a paintbrush once again. He dipped it in blue. He got a pallet. It was too bright. He needed black. He searched around. When he opened the bucket, he froze as if he was paralysed by poison. He could hear the buzzings of flies, guarding the corpses. He remembered black rats, large and hungry, biting and ripping the corpses. Some so mutilated and destroyed he could not see their faces. Grantaire wanted to vomit. His grip on the bucket tightened.   
He took a step back, stumbling. 

Frustrated, he paced around the room until he saw the recorder he set down earlier from the corner of his eye. Sighing, he spoke out loud. “I want to paint a dark blue sky,” he stared at the recorder, expecting some kind of a response. Of course it didn’t do anything. He continued as if it was the journalist, questioning him, “I want it to convey the deep darkness. It’s not black since that’s void of life. No, I want it blue. That’s nature’s biggest weapon, the blue sea. Imagine that power in the sky.” He chuckled to himself since he sounded insane, “It reminds me of drowning- how I felt when I was… there. There were flares of happiness. From time to time there would be laughs and jokes… and, rarer than that, a friendship would form. To think back to the battling days is frightening, but there were some moments that made me feel secure even though we were out in the open.” He took a step back, “So that’s why I don’t want my background to be black.”

Embarrassed, he rushed to turn the recorder off. When he held the device in his hand, he felt air escape his lungs. As if he had been stung he dropped the recorder back on to the small table. Grantaire felt… okay expressing his thoughts. As long as it was about something he was passionate about, he didn’t feel the urge to delete the evidence from it. He could also talk without feeling of being drilled down by sympathetic eyes. 

Grantaire walked over to the bucket once more. He froze for a second again. Slowly he grabbed his paintbrush and dipped it. When he pulled it out, he stared at it for a second before transferring it to his palet. He dipped the paintbrush into a jar of water to wash it out. The clearness of the water was slowly consumed by the darkness. He couldn’t help but root for the pure colour of the water to win and defeat the black paint. But he saw the darkness expand like a cloud and enforce its dictatorship in the jar. Angry, he smashed the glass to the floor. “I’m going to get the brush,” He spoke as if another person was present in the room.

The new house contained essential properties such as cleaning products, so Grantaire knew he would be able to find it. He just didn’t know where to look exactly.   
Every time he entered a dark room, he held his breath until the light was turned on. It wasn’t the case of being terrified of the dark, it was the idea of the contrast between the light outside and the darkness inside. He knew the juxtaposition was due to the curtains being closed, but it feared him that under such beautiful weather, there would be such immense shadow. And every time he entered the shadows he would be reminded of the feeling of isolation and the feeling of doom. That he wouldn't be saved, and that the War would not be over. Unfortunately, to Grantaire this feeling continued to haunt him, and he didn’t know if there would be a day where he wouldn’t feel this way. Even though the soldiers were sent back home, and even though the government put on a smile every day, and even though the civilians attempted to go back to their work, pretending this never happened, Grantaire felt like he was still stuck in the War. Bound and terrified. He kept this thought to himself.

He didn’t paint tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets weird.  
> Grantaire hallucinates supernatural creatures hunting him.

When Grantaire woke up, the sun was barely rising. He couldn’t stop thinking about the mess he left downstairs. Of course he cleaned up the glass he irrationally smashed, but he didn’t get rid of the painting equipment. In his mind, they lie in peace in the spotlight of the moon. It was cold downstairs and silver from the natural light.

Something kept gnawing in his brain and Grantaire was unable to sleep. His thoughts centered on the floor below him. In his mind he walked downstairs as a floating entity to tidy up. Then, in a glance, he observed what he feared. Quickly, he snapped out of his thoughts and buried himself in his blankets. He shivered.

Even though he tried to distract himself, he kept imagining faceless people banging on his window, their mouths wide open in an oval shape. The people were transparent, allowing him to see past their bodies. The outside was blurry and inconsistent, like a glitch. The faces pushed itself through the glass as if it melted the substance. As their heads diffused in, ther bodies slithered in as well. They crawled on all fours, hissing and making clicking sounds. Their eyes appeared and, like headlights, beamed on the painting equipment. Some made the sounds of large thuds, and one made faint sounds of a scream. Their eyes became wider until it consumed their faces whole. They crawled around, floor to wall, searching.

Gradually, as the room became brighter and brighter, Grantaire’s eyes became blurry despite him still being under his blankets. The sounds blared louder and louder. He could now hear underlying sounds of squeaks from the rats and children crying. Grantaire froze, crying while biting his hand so he didn’t make a sound.  
The monsters entered his room, transforming the area almost to complete whiteness with their bright lights. Grantaire started to twitch.  
One of the creatures climbed onto the bed and made the sound of a fly. It was so loud he envisioned a fly entering his ear. Grantaire squealed while crying.

All the creatures then ceased the individual noises to unite to sound a siren. It was the first one Grantaire had heard. In suffocation, he gasped for air by removing his blanket, ready to face the consequences for doing so. However when he sat up he found the room to be empty. Although he heard tappings below his bed as if the monsters crawled under his bed to hide from him. Whimpering, he decided he was never going to get out of his bed.

All alone, he desperately tried to sleep.

Even though Grantaire had managed to sleep, it wasn’t a rest. When he woke up once more, he was sweating profusely, smelly and tired. The reason why he woke up so suddenly was because he heard loud bangings from below. He was now able to recognise that those monsters were fake and part of his imagination. However for a moment he doubted his logic. He heard the harsh sounds again.

He took a deep breath. He told himself it was something normal and not any monsters ready to hunt him.  
He travelled downstairs.

Strangely, as he arrived closer to the ground floor, the quieter the noise became despite it being sourced from the door. By the time his hand reached the door handle the large bangings diluted to casual knocking on the door. Instead, the loud noises strangling him took the form of his heartbeats. Finding it so painful, he grabbed his chest with his other hand. As he still hadn’t opened the door, the knocking continued. Finding it intrusive, he swung open the door, ready to yell, “ I’m fine! Go away, Ép…” Grantaire cocked his head, “You’re not Éponine.”  
The journalist in front of him shook his head, worried. “Am I supposed to be?”  
“No.” Grantaire assured. “It’s just… She was always there when I’m…” Noticing how awkward the other looked, Grantaire strolled without a word to get the recorder.  
Not knowing what Grantaire was doing since Enjolras didn’t have the ability to read people’s thoughts, he took this as a sign of invitation. He cautiously walked into the living room in which Grantaire was in. He saw buckets of paint situated like freckles on the floor and pieces of glass piled next to a brush. “Are you… really ‘fine’?”  
Grantaire jolted as he saw Enjolras. “Why are you here?”  
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just thought-”  
“You thought nothing.” Grantaire rushed to him and harshly handed him the recorder by pushing it on his chest. “Get out, Enjy.”  
Enjolras nodded and rushed out. But he came around as he forgot to give the device back to him. Then he nodded, accidentally bowed to show his concern and apology, and rushed out.  
Grantaire watched the man hurriedly walk away. He lifted the device to his mouth. “Fuck you.” He spoke close to it so Enjolras couldn’t avoid it.  
Before he closed the door, he watched the man be confused and turn the wrong way. Grantaire shook his head.

Once Grantaire was truly alone, he shivered. Not because of a memory or fear, but because it was a generally cold morning.   
He saw his painting equipment scattered in the room. He sighed and started to pace around. What would he draw? Which expression did he want to transmit? What ideas did he wasnt to convey? While he began to walk faster he dropped the recording device. Grantaire paused and stared at the lone machine. He breathed slowly for a while until finally parting his lips, “Do you know when I decided to write and create stories, I don’t think of the characters nor the plot before I put ink on paper. I let the writing drive me…” He looked at the wall which he wished to paint on. “Maybe I should let my hand guide me.”

He painted the outline of the painting, which he didn’t decide what it was going to be, in black. The corners of the rectangle would then become dilute to a grey as it made its way into the white space. Grantaire thought carefully what was going to be in the middle. Instead, he grabbed white bucket and put the colour on his pallet. He then mixed it with black. For a while he wondered how to make the grey into gold. He then obviously remembered the existence of yellow.  
As he mixed the colours, he felt calmer. “I see the world has its darkness and its lightness. There are murders but there are charities. There are screamings of pain and there are screamings of joys. There are tears of loneliness and heartbreak and there are tears of pure joy and relief. I viewed the world as a never ending abyss, starved from any light. But I think I’m ready… I think I can see the world differently. I’ll choose to see the world the way others see it. Like how Bossuet sees it. Like how Cosette, I think, probably, sees it.”  
He mixed the yellow with the grey. It wasn’t a bright colour as he hoped and was rather a dark gold, but he was content with it. It suited whatever he was going to draw.  
He grabbed a thinner paintbrush. He wrote a poem in the corner, surprising himself as it was a sonnet. After he finished the four lines, he took a step back. “Huh, I guess there is love in me after all. Still…”  
Grantaire sighed. He dipped his paintbrush in a new jar of water. He tried to look away just in case his anger would eat him once more.  
Despite the quite consistent fear he was living through, he was now able to recognise some good aspects of his life. And it seemed his subconscious wanted to remind him of those elements.


	8. Chapter 8

It was midnight and Grantaire ate his breakfast. He then heard knocking on the door. At that moment Grantaire ran through everyone he knew in this area: Éponine, Lesgle, Cosette, and Enjy, as he thought his name was. From all of them, he wondered who would want to see him at midnight. He shuddered at the thought of Enjy being a stalker as well. To send him away he quickly headed for the door and loudly warned, “You need to leave me alone, the deal was…” Grantaire sighed, “Éponine, what’s up?”  
She lifted her eyebrow. “Who did you think would be here?”  
“I’ll help you get in.” Grantaire said.

Grantaire didn’t really know why he thought the journalist would just visit him… Perhaps it was because he knew he treated him harshly… But he did intrude in his house… He shook his head. He would rather listen to Éponine.  
“There was a petite young man who wanted me to come to yours,” She cocked her head, “Kept shouting ‘Éponine’ over and over again to the few doors he knocked on. By mistake one time he shouted ‘’Ponine’ which is a nice nickname… How come you didn't think of that? I thought you were a master of nicknames…”   
Grantaire failed to move. “Do you know his name?”  
Éponine thought for a while. “No. I never asked. He just told me that you needed me.”  
“Then why did it take you so long to get here?”  
Éponine shrugged. “You don’t need my help.”  
“What?”  
“Grantaire, I’m not your wife nor your babysitter. I’m not always going to crawl next to you whenever you feel a bit panicky. Learn to cope with life. It’s been a year, Grantaire.”  
It had been a year but it also astonished Grantaire that there was a deadline in getting better. Of all people he expected Éponine to understand the struggles that he felt. That once you meet Death in the eye, it’s impossible to turn back. The dead eyes… They always stared back. “Éponine, you were able to handle the War better than I did, congratulations. But I’m still hurt, okay? Sure, I didn’t need you now, but I might need you later. You can’t react to these situations like this.”  
“Oh, you’re gonna ‘need’ me? I’m not your pet. And for the record, my legs blew off. Did you forget about that?” Her voice began to crack and tears started to fall, “I had to handle the consequences of the War, and I had a larger burden than you did. You just think you’re in the centre of everything- that the whole world revolves around you. It doesn’t. I can’t orbit around you and check if you’re doing okay. I can’t.”  
“I thought you said we would support each other.”  
“Yes, I did. Back in the trenches. But the immediate effects of the War are gone now. We have to work on getting our country back to its prime. We don’t have time for homeless people painting while relying on charity. Especially when they can’t draw.”  
Grantaire held his breath. He focused on the emphases she put on ‘homeless’. He arrived at a logical conclusion on what Éponine meant. “Do you want me to move out?”  
“No, no,” She instinctively said. After years of friendship she never wanted to hurt him. But he had to be independent. “Grantaire, you came here after having run away. You literally ran away from your responsibilities. This place- This place is not a sanctuary, Grantaire. I’ve seen people carry cameras around here. I’ve seen a group of people in hats or sunglasses, hiding their faces, and creeping near this house. Whether you like it or not, you will be surrounded by those kinds of people for years to come. And within those years you can’t stay with me. As much as I would like for you to be beside me, it’ll never work. You have to leave…”  
Grantaire shifted on the spot. “When?” He whispered, not able to raise his volume any higher.  
“End of this week. That’ll be enough time for you to find somewhere else to live… Right?”  
Grantaire nodded. “Right.”  
Éponine nodded back. “Right.”  
The two stared at each other for a long time. Several seconds passed and neither of them looked away. They both longed for each other. They both desired for one another to be close to them. Yet she loved him enough to know he had to get back on his feet- and this place was not the correct place for that to happen. Being secluded didn’t mean solving problems, it meant hiding away, letting problems build up. She wanted him to grow. She needed him to fly.

When she left, they didn’t even say a word to each other. Instead, he watched her leave. Something sharp stabbed him in his chest and he couldn’t do anything to remove the pain.

He returned to his cereal. He tried to eat it but it was soggy. Instead he washed the bowl and the spoon. Despite his stomach rumbling, he punished himself by heading to bed. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, his leg refused to move as he was so tired. Turning around, he sat on the bottom stair and began to cry. Éponine was one of his closest friends, and this meant the two would be separated again. It was due to extreme pressure he was able to meet her again. He doubted such a thing would occur once more, particularly because he knew the result which would play out. He would be turned away.

His vision became cloudy and he crawled to the sofa in the living room. He envisioned Lesgle sitting next to him, like he did a couple of days ago. At least his imagination of his friend was warm towards him… He grabbed a cushion and hugged it tight as he began to fall asleep. The lights were on, and the room was very bright. But that didn’t matter. He slept through worse. He closed his eyes.

It felt as if barely any time passed and there was another person wanting to visit him. It was the morning and the sun had risen. And that meant he knew who it was on the other side of the door. His heart sank as he didn’t want to be seen by him. In fact he wanted some isolation. Mainly because he hadn’t finished crying out all his tears. It was an advice Éponine gave to him when Grantaire thought they were going to die one night. She calmly held his hand and just when he thought she was going to breathe with him, she smirked and told him to let all the demons out. Cry until his bones become dry calcium. Until his blood becomes red powder. She taught him that he could think clearly once the emotions would be swept away. And it worked. Albeit it took twenty five hours for him to stop all the tears. But after he cried he felt liberated somehow- as if he was floating. He was so excited that he woke Éponine up who was sleeping beside him. Rather than telling him off for waking her up, she smiled warmly. It was one of the rare moments where Grantaire captured a picture of her in his head. That way, he could forever remember the littlest strands of love and hope in the times of darkness. It seemed Grantaire forgot about the moment… 

Swiftly, he swiped the recording device and opened the door. It was Enjy. Of course it was Enjy.   
Recognising the silence between them, Enjolras kept his mouth shut as he believed Grantaire was still mad at him and didn’t want to communicate. He waited for the recorder to be returned. Confused, he gave a smile. But Grantaire’s eyes were red and he was slightly shaking. The smile faded. “Are you okay? Should I get Ép-” Grantaire pulled Enjolras in for a hug. “What-” He heard Grantaire sniffling, “What’s wrong, Grantaire?” He asked.

There was no response for a while and all the while he held him close. They hugged for what seemed like seconds to Grantaire and minutes to Enjolras.   
“I don’t need her.” Grantaire managed to push out. “I need you.”  
There was a short montage of interactions Enjolras had with him, and it wasn’t enough to develop a meaningful nor deep relationship. Sure, on Enjolras’ side, there were feelings manifesting, but that was because he knew of his work for years. Grantaire didn’t know him at all. He then concluded this reaction was in this way because he represented something to him. He wasn’t quite sure of what, but he didn’t necessarily want to ask a man whose snot was dripping onto his shirt.   
Enjolras hugged him back. “I’m here.” He spoke gently.

At last, Grantaire pulled back. He looked Enjolras up and down and his hands were still placed on him. It seemed painful for Grantaire to pull away. So he let his hand travel down to Enjolras’ hand and held it. Then he lightly guided him inside. At this point Enjolras was very scared. He pinched himself to check if he was dreaming.

Grantaire led him to the living room where paint was everywhere. Grantaire finally faced him again and gave a tired smile. Before Enjolras could open his mouth, Grantaire replied to his question that he did not say yet, “I’m not okay.”  
“Oh.” Enjolras squeezed his hand. “Do you… Want to talk about it?”  
He looked down at his feet, letting seconds pass.  
“You don’t have to.” He stared at Grantaire’s other hand and saw the recorder. He thought it would be rude to grab it.  
As if he heard Enjolras’ thoughts, he stated, “There’s nothing on it.”  
“Oh.”  
“Nothing important, anyway.”  
“I don’t think that’s true.”  
“Delete it. I want you to delete it.” Grantaire looked deep into his eyes as he handed the recorder to him.   
He smiled, believing he was talking nonsense. “Whatever’s on the tape I don’t think-”  
“Please?” Grantaire begged.

This made Enjolras feel uneasy. There must have been good material for him to write about in the recording yet he needed to respect the man and delete his work.   
Enjolras nodded.   
He remembered when he got his first recording back Grantaire had started a new recording twice. One was because he commented something nice about him, and the other because his friend teased him. Although listening to them made him blush as well as confused, it also made him realise Grantaire didn’t know how the device worked. So if he were to start the recording again Grantaire would think he had deleted the content.  
He received the recorder, their fingers touching. Grantaire was warm.

Enjolras looked down at the recorder. He knew what he had to do. It was simple. Trick the man. He would never know… unless he reads the newspaper the next day. But he hadn’t so far, so he doubted he would any time soon.   
Enjolras sighed as he weighed the device in his hand. He glanced up at Grantaire for a second, meeting his eyes. He was in bad shape. Manipulating him would bring nothing good. Enjolras stared down and deleted the content.  
“Woah,” Grantaire spoke, realising the potentiality of Enjolras having heard the recordings he ‘deleted’, “That’s not the button.”  
“It- it is.” Enjolras argued.  
Grantaire avoided his eye contact and whispered, “Fuck.”

This was the moment, Enjolras thought. He could develop their relationship. He could tease him and they would laugh together.  
“I’m leaving soon.” Grantaire said.  
“What?”  
“I’m probably going to fly away to another country. It would be painful to do so, but I don’t think I can stay in this wretched country longer.”  
Enjolras nodded despite not understanding his point of view.  
“You can keep trying to visit me, or you can just leave now. No exchange of recorders- it’s not like you found valuable content in there anyway, right?”

Enjolras looked down at the device. It was a machine that would capture the beauty of Grantaire, but Enjolras only went along with this stupid idea since it would be therapeutic to him. When he heard what Grantaire said in front of the swarm of journalists not too long ago, he wanted to help. But he came to the realisation he contributed nothing but annoyance. This was going to be the last time he saw him, he decided. So he took a risk, “What did you say in the recording that I deleted?”  
“Are you recording now?”  
Enjolras shook his head.  
“I had a falling out with Éponine.” Grantaire withheld the fact that it stemmed from his dependency on her and that it was Enjolras who acted as the catalyst, “And I said lovey-dovey stuff as I wrote a poem.”  
“Oh.” Enjolras looked sad.  
“Don’t worry, you can read it. It’s behind you.” Grantaire pointed at a wall.

Carefully, Enjolras read it and smiled. When he turned to show him his approval, Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat. Attempting to hide his emotions, he joked, “Most of all, I committed the terrible crime of insulting you.”  
Enjolras remembered the beginning of yesterday, “I’m sorry, I thought-”  
“Don’t apologise.” Grantaire sighed.  
Enjolras nodded, not sure what created the change in character. “So, I’m not the reason why you’re… like this?”  
Grantaire gave out a laugh, “Oh God no. No. Of course not.”  
He didn’t know how to react to that. “I think talking about pain makes you feel alleviated.”  
“Are you trying to record me?”  
“No! No. I just… I don’t like seeing you like this.”  
“I would be worried if someone enjoyed me looking like this.”

Enjolras held his tongue on reporters who were writing about him negatively, as if his traumas were trophies. “I won’t record you. I just wanted you to be… open.”  
Grantaire smiled, but not one of those which were filled with happiness, more like sympathy, “And it has helped me be more open.”  
“Has it?”  
“I was super open before Éponine came in.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Why are you apologising?” Grantaire asked, making sure Enjolras wouldn’t feel guilty about their falling out.  
“Nothing.”  
“You’ve been helpful.” He placed his hand on his shoulder.  
Enjolras blushed. “I’ll listen.”  
“What?”  
“I’ll listen while you paint.”  
“I’m repeating myself- what?”  
“You talk, I listen. Then it wouldn’t be a lonely metal recording you. It’ll be me. A person. Talking. I might drop in some advice.”  
“Aren’t you too young to have life changing advice?”  
“Normal-tier advice, then. What you say?”  
Grantaire chuckled. He was able to notice he felt general joy when talking to him. Just like how he felt with Lesgle and Éponine. “But I’ll leave soon.”  
“Then I’ll be here everyday until the day you leave. Then you won’t see me again.” Enjolras somehow managed to deliver this in an enthusiastic manner.  
“And you’ll never see me again.” Grantaire echoed. Honestly he wished he heard this sooner. But since they got on well, he disliked this idea. However they weren’t friends. If Grantaire lost him, it shouldn’t hurt him badly. “Okay, Enjy.” He shook hands as if it was a business deal, “Although I need time alone right now. Today.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes. Definitely. I need to cry.”  
“Oh, okay.” Enjolras cocked his head, “Not because of what I suggested?”  
“Not even related.”  
“Okay.” Then Enjolras was gone. Temporarily. He would return without a doubt.   
At least one thing was sure in his life so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to develop the relationship between R and Enjolras but it just seems so off Oops. At least I can practise writing romance here.


	9. Chapter 9

Éponine stood in front of him with mud in her face. When she smiled her rotten teeth showed. Her hair was waxy and heavy. She was tying it up while she was casually speaking. She revealed she knew who Grantaire was, but that didn't matter. Unlike everybody else she didn’t care about which class a person came from. They were all the same. They were all pawns in the tilted chess board.   
She put her hat on. “I know we said no personal stories, but,” Her face transformed to sharp teeth and narrow pupils, “You murdered people, haven’t you, Grantaire? With weapons of destruction, you slaughtered so many. Most of them were innocent.”

Grantaire woke up. Since he had just entered back into reality, he was still dizzy, so he closed his eyes and repeatedly told himself that was all not real. It was a twisted contortion of his memory. Éponine only told him that she was adopted into a rich family. She even showed off her Valjean name. That was how he knew he could escape here.  
‘Escape’... Éponine was right. He didn’t see this as a friend’s place. He saw this as an embodiment of safety. That wasn’t true. He was still a centre of attention to certain people.  
Speaking of, he heard a knock on the door.   
Yesterday he made a deal with a journalist that his voice wouldn’t be recorded but listened to instead. Since Lesgle was absent, he had Enjy as his friend. In retrospect this was a stupid agreement asnd Grantaire wanted to stuff his face into the sand and yell about his bad life choices.  
However if the War had taught him anything, it is that he had to face the consequences.

Groaning, he opened the door to see a very, over the top smiling man in front of him. For a split second he wished he imagined Éponine again instead of this mess.  
“Hello, Grantaire.” Enjolras spoke, stepping in.  
“Hi.” He scratched his head, “I haven’t eaten yet, so I guess you have to awkwardly watch me eat.”  
“Would love to do so,” He had bounce in his steps, “I mean, it’s not ideal, but it’s my mistake arriving here so early.”  
Grantaire wondered why he was acting very differently. He wasn’t even being an over exaggeration of himself. He was just completely different.

While eating Grantaire stared at Enjolras who was roaming around the kitchen, in awe of everything. Once he finished his breakfast, he commented, “Liking those things is not liking me. It’s liking Éponine.”  
Enjolras swiveled to face him. “Well, I guess I like her.”  
Grantaire shrugged and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

As he was staring at himself in the mirror, he ran down what just happened. He assumed Enjolras took interest in Grantaire and only wanted to be seen as likable by him. Never did it occur Enjolras would generally like the place. He thought it was just an act.   
He brushed his teeth harder to punish himself for thinking so egotistically.   
When he removed the brush from his mouth he saw how it was flattened. Great. He needed another toothbrush.  
Disappointment after disappointment, Grantaire stared hard in the mirror and watched his reflection. At any moment he expected it to come alive and scare him. He didn’t stop breaking eye contact with himself. He imagined his hands travelling outside of the mirror, to his neck, strangling him with a wide grin on his face.  
Luckily he was able to snap out of this thought as Enjolras called out for him on the other side. “Are you okay? Did I scare you, I’m sorry. I just…”  
Confused, Grantaire swung the door wide open, “Go on.”  
Enjolras shifted, “I wanted to counter the sadness you felt the other day by being overly optimistic.”  
Grantaire felt as if he needed to yell at him. Shout why he tried to manipulate him. But there was enough anger between him and others. It was the reason why he was unable to make many friends when he was young. Why the others looked at him in disgust whenever he was in a social gathering. So, he breathed deeply, then smiled. “You don’t have to be artificial. Not now, not ever. Be yourself. I like you.” He stumbled in the last word, then elaborated what he meant, “The real you. I don’t like it when people put on a mask.”  
Enjolras nodded, his face visibly red, not that Grantaire noticed.

Now that eating was out of the way, there was empty time left. Nothing to do but paint. Grantaire considered himself to be lucky. He had enough money to do nothing all day. He wondered what that would look like in front of Enjolras, then shook his head. He was a passive onlooker, not a judge.

He picked up the pallet and started painting dark blue as the background. He then put yellow on his pallet then added stars, sprinkled in the edge of the portrait.  
It had been many minutes, quite possibly an hour, and Enjolras had not spoken yet.  
That was good. If he were to ask what he was painting, Grantaire would’ve muttered nonsensically as he still didn’t decide what it would be about.

While he was drawing he was aware of Enjolras’ eyes digging into him. Out of discomfort, he finally spoke, “My speech isn’t as good as my writing. I could talk about why I chose the colour of dark blue, but it would never be poetic.”  
He carried on painting. Enjolras didn’t reply until a handful of seconds passed.  
“I always liked the rawness of your writing. How it sounded like a person would talk. Your last work… When Poppy spoke, she actually sounded like a little girl. Not a symbol nor a metaphor trying to prove a point about loss of innocence, she actually sounded like a little girl caught in the storm of the war.”  
Grantaire put more yellow paint onto his pallet. He glanced up at Enjolras, who was surprised to have their eyes meet. “Do you want to know the truth?”  
Enjolras nodded, leaning towards him in interest.  
“It was because Poppy was a little girl. There was no hidden meaning. I wrote this story from the perspective of a small person fighting to survive in the big world. If anything, she was a representation of me. A representation of how everyone feels when they reach adulthood.”

He didn’t realise he put too much yellow on the pallet, he was too deep in thought. As the stars he drew earlier had bright yellow, he tried to contrast it and picked up the bucket of black paint and, drop by drop, mixed it with the yellow.   
Every once in a while he looked up at Enjolras, who had not stopped staring at him.   
Once he achieved the shade he wanted, he spoke once more, “What, Enjy? You keep staring at me.”  
He shook his head but ironically didn’t even try to lift his eyes off from him.

Grantaire exhaled and began to draw wavy lines of dark yellow. He didn’t know what they were. At first he imagined them to be long, narrow roads, representing how people could take as many paths as they wanted, but they would lead to nowhere. Although the endings of the paths were in different spots in the portrait, it was still the same finale. The empty abyss.   
The abyss… The thought of this was so familiar. Grantaire snapped back and looked at the bucket of black paint. He then stared at Enjolras in disbelief. The journalist just stared at him, confused by his odd behaviour.  
“This is good,” Grantaire reflected.  
“What?” Enjolras was taken back, “I mean, yes, of course it is. What are we talking about?”  
“Just now. I was distracted by… whatever charm you have, I forgot I was retrieving black paint.”   
Giddish, Grantaire thought about finally using red paint. Then he froze by the idea of doing such a thing. After the brief paralysis he figured that was probably not a good idea.  
When he appointed his attention back to Enjolras, he was looking away, smiling. “What now?” Grantaire tiredly spoke.  
“You say many misleading things, Grantaire,” Enjolras muttered.

He tried to think what he might’ve said which could’ve been misinterpreted. He arrived at the conclusion Enjolras was seeing invisible elements. “I’ll be more open. Anything that’s in my mind, I’ll say out loud. That’s what you wanted in the first place, right? At least now I can hear the recipient.”  
Enjolras awkwardly chuckled.   
“I like your laugh.” Grantaire said. In his mind he wanted to scream such affection should be kept inside, and not verbally expressed. But judging from Enjolras’ response, the situation was not so bad. 

He continued to paint wavy lines, tangling with one another. “What I meant earlier was,” He exhaled, “You helped me distract myself from the pains of the War. Before, when I stared at the black paint, I felt intrigued. It was like staring into the eye of a monster. Frightened, yet I wanted to know more. I felt drawn to the colour, wanting to get closer to it… Fall into the abyss.”  
Enjolras abruptly stood up.  
“But I didn’t want to do that today. It might be because I was handling a small amount of black. Or that the thing I had to do was not directly look at it. Maybe it was because of time passing that I--” When Grantaire swiveled to face Enjolras, he was greeted with a tight hug. “You’re going to get paint all over--”  
“I don’t care, Grantaire.” Enjolras pressed his chest harder to his, closing any gap between the two bodies. “I thought I wanted to hear majestic words from you. I was selfish to think the War would have only made you more poetic. But I understand how malicious of me that was, and how great it feels to admit it.” Grantaire frowned, not that Enjolras could see it, “It pains me to hear such depressing, melancholic words. I don’t want you to feel that.”  
Grantaire slowly hugged him back. Of course he didn’t want to feel depressed. Nor deflated. Nor void. “That’s just how life is.” He gloomly replied.  
Briskly, Enjolras pulled Grantaire out of the hug, which left Grantaire feel surprisingly cold, “But that’s not how life should be. It should be about love. And compassion. And- and feeling fulfilled. We shouldn’t settle for anything. We should drive for the feeling of perfection.”  
Grantaired stared into the man’s blue eyes. They were like the endless sky and the vast sea at the same time. He could see the illogical optimism and his anchoring pessimism coexisting. He couldn’t stop looking at them.

Enjolras let go of Grantaire, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I told you I was going to be--”  
“No.” Grantaire sternly spoke. He turned his head to look at his painting. He realised what he was drawing. Who he was drawing. “It’s you, Enjy.” He murmured.  
“What?”  
“I viewed you as innocent but I was playing blind. I realise everyone has been equally affected by the War. I was self-centred yet again. You remind me of hope. I didn’t think after the War things could ever return back to how it was within my lifetime. But the overall essence of life will remain. You, Enjy, remind me of…” He tried to think of a complex word that would summarise his feelings, “Happiness.”  
Enjolras stood and watched Grantaire in awe.   
Grantaire grinned so wide it hurt his mouth. But he didn’t care. He was so glad he finally figured out what Enjolras meant to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say, you need moments of joy to properly highlight the moments of pure angst.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally there's some kind of an advancement in E and R's relationship and it's been what? 15k words?

It had been a couple of days, but it felt like Enjolras was always there with him. This was due to Grantaire being completely immersed in his painting, especially now he knew what he was working towards. Colours weren’t just colours anymore. He wasn’t picking up yellow just because it meant gleefulness. It was deeper than that now. There was depth. There was meaning; symbols where he had not intended, yet his subconscious whispered.

Every now and then he would glance at Enjolras, stirring some inspiration from him. For a few seconds he would focus on different aspects of them and how his gut felt. He looked at his blond hair and he felt as if he was floating. He stared deep into his ocean blue eyes and he didn’t feel scared he was in the sea by himself since he felt as if Enjolras was always going to be with him.

As his eyes returned to the painting, he skimmed past a figure outside the window. Surprised, he grabbed his chest. Enjolras immediately stood up and rushed to him, believing this to be some kind of an attack. Panicking, he asked a wave of questions such as ‘can you hear me?’. Trying to warn him that it wasn’t any type of reaction was hard since his voice could easily be drowned out by the sheer tide of care and worry Enjolras emitted.  
This time, Grantaire wasn’t so afraid. Rather than it being due to Enjolras, Grantaire deemed the effect to have been because of time. His recovery was long overdue anyway.

Grantaire took in a good amount of breath just in case he saw a monster outside and he could scream loud enough to alert others in the neighbourhood.  
But it was just Lesgle. With a child in his arms.

Hurriedly Grantaire leapt to the front door and greeted the little girl then Lesgle, in that order. “Hey, Clémence!” He looked up at Lesgle. “Hey Lesgle. I thought you were gone for a long time. Kind of expected Musi to get mad at you for staying over with me.”  
Lesgle chuckled as he let Clémence down. Calmly he shook his head. “She’s with me. She’s parking right now.”  
“Oh.” Grantaire breathed out. They haven’t seen each other for years. In fact he hadn’t seen a lot of anyone before the War. He didn’t know if he could handle this.  
“Hey,” Lesgle nodded at the journalist.  
Grantaire felt relieved Lesgle wasn’t up in arms about a journalist being inside the house, especially when he was drawing him. He beamed at the idea of the two being friends.  
Lesgle pulled a double take and stared at Enjolras for a couple of seconds, “Wait, you’re the journalist! I can tell now ‘cause I’m wearing glasses.” He pointed at his glasses to emphasis what was already clear from the beginning, “You look very effeminate.”  
“Thank you.” Enjolras took no offense but did find what Lesgle said out of the ordinary.

Musichetta practically stormed into the house with her second daughter in her arms before gently dropping her to the floor. Bossuet’s family for some reason had a low-key obsession in making sure their children never touched the outside floor. Or at least that was how Grantaire viewed their over caring behaviour. “R, look after Jeanne for me. I’m going to talk to talk to your ‘friend’.”  
“What? No.” Grantaire reached out for her before pausing. “Who are we talking about?”  
“Your soldier friend.” She crossed her arms after encouraging Jeanne to explore the house, “The friend who is forcing you out because you’re not improving as fast as she is?” She practically spat the last sentence out.  
“Now, when you put it like that it sounds bad.” Grantaire shrugged, “But I don’t mind-- Musi!”  
She had already turned away and stormed off.  
Lesgle chuckled. “She has no idea where she’s going.”  
“Great. Stop her.”  
“No way,” He narrowed his eyes, “I’m on your side. Even if it means going against you.” Lesgle casually jogged out.  
“Do you even hear yourself?” Grantaire shouted out.  
Miraculously Musichetta felt the presence of her husband behind her and turned around. As if they had rehearsed this, he smoothly guided her to Éponine’s house.

“She calls you ‘R’ as well,” The only adult voice left pointed out.  
Grantaire jumped since he was so caught in the moment he forgot about Enjolras.

Beside him, Clémence sat, swinging her feet, watching the blond man above her in great detail. “Who are you, mister?”  
Enjolras looked up at Grantaire, his cheeks red. He must have found children talking to him awkward because his expression reminded Grantaire a lot about how he first reacted when he met Clémence for the first time. She was so tiny, like a dumpling. He snorted to himself before lifting Clémence like a cat and bringing her to his arms. “He’s just my friend.” He turned around, “Come on, let’s find your sister.”  
Enjolras thought this was another cue, and grabbed his bag to leave. Instead, Grantaire looked back and pouted. He could see him go. But then again there was, what, two days left in this household? He didn’t want him to leave. “Come on, Enjy, you too.”  
Blushing, the man followed him, going on a mini adventure to find the six year old girl.

With Enjolras beside him, Grantaire felt rather safe. Or it was Clémence. Maybe both of them. They both reminded him of reality. They were his anchors in the raging ocean.

Clémence began to run her mouth as she dangled her legs, signifying she wanted to walk. Grantaire obliged her orders. However she didn’t quieten down. That was a typical nine year old… Grantaire honestly didn’t know what he expected.  
“I thought you were more than friends,” She said as she tried to balance on a non-existent bar on the floor. “I sat next to him since- since I saw the…” She waved her hand vigorously as if she was having a tiny stroke until she began to jump up and down, “Painting. The blond man. Isn’t it him?” She bluntly pointed at Enjolras.  
Instead of replying Grantaire pointed beneath the kitchen table, “Is that Jeanne there?”  
Squeaking excitedly Clémence bent down and slid under the table.

For a moment the two had silence. To indicate Clémence didn’t know what she was talking about, Grantaire tried to show an exaggerated shrug to Enjolras, but he too was crawling under the table. Grantaire sighed.

In the end, all three were under the table with no Jeanne. “I guess I was wrong.” Grantaire shrugged. “Does she know how to climb the stairs?”  
“She’s six.” Clémence stated. Despite her childish way of speaking, she acted more of a knowledgeable adult than Grantaire.  
Enjolras chuckled. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”  
Clémence nodded and took Enjolras by his hand, eagerly rushing to the stairs.

For a fraction of a second Grantaire remembered how energetic he was with Clémence (Jeanne was too young before the War to play around by themselves). There was no need to distract her, and Clémence’s attention was always on him. He denied it for a long time but he definitely was her uncle. His heart aviated as he remembered Lesgle mentioning that Clémence thought of him as her friend. Obviously her talking about him at home must have made Jeanne remember him as well despite being young. Well, younger.

Somehow the energy from the child and Enjolras suddenly transferred to him and Grantaire crawled out of the shadows of the table and jogged to the stairs to join the two.

As he reached the top he saw Enjolras playfully sit with the two girls and listen in carefully to what the two girls were saying. From his face and his generic replies Grantaire knew he didn't understand what they were saying. Grantaire sat next to him and nudged him a little as a little ‘thank you’. They smiled at each other, their faces close. Enjolras stared down at his lips for a flicker of a second. When Grantaire didn’t reciprocate, Enjolras immediately diverted his attention to the children instead and continued giggling with them.  
The truth was Grantaire was blushing heavily from what Enjolras just did, and couldn’t react in time. Obviously he wasn’t going to go in for a kiss, but there was a large burden of regret. He touched his forehead and felt heat rise.  
To Enjolras, he felt shame since he misinterpreted Grantaire’s action as slapping one’s forehead after something stupid had occured. In other words, Enjolras felt heavily embarrassed by revealing he was interested in the man. Although his emotion was heavily visible from the beginning Grantaire wasn’t the smartest man around. But there was no escaping what Enjolras had just shown. Closing his eyes, not wanting to exist, he wanted to bury his head in the ground.

Just then Musichetta bursted back into the house, rambling loudly enough to alert every neighbour. In the country.  
Following her was Lesgle, heavily nodding whatever she was saying. Grantaire laughed as he saw the two enter. When Musichetta grew up to take the form of… this, Grantaire thought Lesgle was going to break up with her- that he loved the old, goofy girl he first fell in love with. Yet, it never happened. They fell in love and they never managed to get out of that hell hole.

Clémence and Jeanne ran down stairs which worried everyone in the house to a distressing degree. Clémence ran into her father’s arms and Jeanne just rushed past them, taking a U-turn to explore another room supposedly.  
“I’ll get her.” Enjolras knew what was coming next and made sure he was out of the scene.  
He was slowly getting better at picking up clues, Grantaire congratulated him in his head. In his own time he hiked down the stairs. When his feet touched the ground, Lesgle pointed to where Enjolras went, “Really? Him? You just met him, and you’re trusting him with our children?”  
Grantaire realised he had a point. He rubbed his chin, “Well, I’ve known Enjy for a while now.”  
Lesgle chuckled, then walked off with Clémence to make sure Jeanne wasn’t getting murdered.

Then, only the two of them were left. “You look great. You gained weight.” Grantaire wanted to punch himself in the face, “I mean, like a healthy amount of fat. Well, not fat necessarily, but-”  
“I know what you mean, R,” She put her hands on her waist, “Glad to know you haven’t changed.” She sighed. “Éponine’s a bitch.” She rubbed her hand against her hair in frustration. “She’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”  
Grantaire shrugged, “And prideful. And obedient. Probably why she made a good soldier… Definitely better than me.”  
“R, look,” She placed her hand on his shoulder, “You have to talk to her. You’re not leaving this place. I heard her excuse. It’s a shit excuse, you hear me? You finally feel safe here. There’s not a lot of places a person can feel safe. Especially after the War. This house was a godsend. Don’t lose it.”  
There was a moment of silence. Musichetta somehow understood his situation despite not having gone through the same pain as he did. Not knowing he was pushing down so many feelings he hugged her tightly. “Did I ever tell you I love you?”  
Naturally she hugged him back. Things returned to how it used to be. Nothing had changed. Grantaire felt safe in the arms of his friend. “You mention it too many times.” She whispered.  
When Grantaire pulled away he closed his eyes to convey the most sincere tone he could muster, “I promise I’ll talk to Éponine about this.”  
They both stared at each other, nodding. “I mean now, R.”  
“Oh right.” He said, shaking his head. “Just take Enjy away without treating him... Just don’t… Don’t be intimidating to him.”  
“I won’t even think of it.” She gave a toothy grin.  
Grantaire didn’t trust her just like how he wouldn’t trust Lesgle to not already be having such a conversation with Enjolras.

Awkwardly, Grantaire rushed out and walked as slow as he could to Éponine’s home. She was going to be infuriated. Already, she was tired of the constant attention and drama and having one person visit her house was going to be more than enough for volcanoes to erupt in her eyes.  
Grantaire took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

The door opened with Cosette staring at him wide-eyed. “Oh, Grantaire!” She looked around. “Your friend is not here with you?”  
“Lesgle? No.”  
“You know fully well I meant your female friend. I’m not scared of your boyfriend.”  
Grantaire sighed, rubbing his face in his hands out of tiredness. “Can I come in? I need to talk to your sister.”  
Cosette paused for a second. “Yeah, sure.”

It was as if Éponine was waiting for him inside. “Grantaire.” She observed as she gave a passive look to Cosette indicating that she wanted to be alone. At this point he had been left alone so many times today he was exhaling in boredom at her action. She continued, “I talked to your friend. She’s… not what I expected her to be like. Especially when you described that she was the wife of your friend, Lesgle.”  
“Yeah, Éponine, I have to ask for an extension in my stay,” Grantaire rubbed his hands in nervousness.  
“No. You have to learn how to grow. It’s tough love.”  
“But that’s the thing. I’m already getting better. If I return back I feel like I would be triggered again. I don’t want to be stuck in this vicious cycle.”  
She stared at him with confusion but most of all actual compassion. She really did believe she was doing him a favour. In its own way this calmed him. “Life is going to be full of triggers. The human brain is excellent in spotting patterns, and whether you like it or not everything will relate back to you being a soldier.”  
Grantaire shifted, “Éponine you’re not being reasonable.”  
“You’re the unreasonable one, you can’t think straight. You can’t s you’ve made no progress- no change.”  
“This type of thing takes time.”  
“It took time for me. Why haven’t you healed yet?”  
Grantaire wanted to slap her, “Éponine, I’m going to say this once because I love you but you’re being egotistical and a bitch. I don’t know how you healed, but congratulations. But I’m still damaged. Not everyone is you!” He raised his voice, “Just because you took a certain time to get better doesn’t mean everyone else is the same! Why can’t you see this, ‘Ponine? It’s not that hard!” He raised his hand and pulled it back. Éponine didn’t flinch. This made him pity her. “I can’t keep supporting you when you keep thinking about yourself.” He scanned around the room to check they were alone, not knowing Cosette could hear them as she leaned against the door, listening, “You have to tell Cosette the truth, too. You’re in a happy, loving family. I get that you have issues, but Éponine for fuck’s sake everyone loves you. Tell Cosette why you went to the War. And don’t pressure your parents to hide information from their daughter. I know it gives you the sense of power, but you’re…” Grantaire lowered his voice, feeling guilty he was ranting to someone who kept him sane during the devastation of the time, “Not… A very nice person.” Grantaire guiltily glanced at her.  
Éponine’s eyes were glassy. She wheeled backwards, then passed him. “Leave.” She muttered.  
“But, Cosette- You have to-”  
“Leave!” She yelled, lowering her pitch.  
The sound echoed in his eardrums and manifested a monster within him that he fell to his knees. It wasn’t the wooden floor anymore- it was grass. Blackened grass. Ash was falling.  
“Grantaire?” A voice called out.  
He looked up. It was Éponine. She was walking- no she was running towards him. “Grantaire?” She called out as she wrapped her arms around his.  
As soon as physical contact was made, he saw Éponine once more. She was in a wheelchair. He looked at her legs, or lack thereof. He sharply breathed in, fragmented.

He quickly excused himself and left, leaving nothing but a muttered ‘thanks’ to his friend.


End file.
